


Separation Anxiety

by forkidcest, strititty



Series: Demon Next Door [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad People Trying To Be Better, Clothed Sex, Demonstuck, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forkidcest/pseuds/forkidcest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/strititty/pseuds/strititty
Summary: Bro is thoroughly convinced that the guy who moved in down the hall is some sort of stalker, for all that he looks like a missing kid brother aged up three sizes. He's only mostly wrong.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dirk's Bro | Alpha Dave Strider
Series: Demon Next Door [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646401
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79
Collections: Stridercest Secret Santa





	Separation Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> done for the stridercest secret santa! i wrote a big chunky outline that sz very graciously filled in with connecting details and other delicious little scenes. major, major props and so many thanks <3

He moves in down the hall when you're not looking, somehow.

You don't know how he possibly could have, because you have this shit on lockdown. This apartment building is your oyster. You basically own it—you pay your landlady obscene amounts of money to look the other way when it comes to the fake blood that sometimes drips down a floor or two, and you never let anyone get past you. Someone moves in, you know about it. Someone moves out, you know about it. Someone freaks out when they step on a smuppet, you hear it three floors up. Good times.

So what the fuck is up with the new guy? 

You almost think he's a ghost. A joke. Some fucker who's a fan of your shit and a stalker to boot. He has to be your age, from the looks you catch of him in the hallway. He's your age, hair white and fair as motherfucking snow, wearing a slick suit that never seems to rumple. You can respect his dedication to the Look, except. Except. 

He's got aviators on and, far as you can tell, he never takes them off. Whenever you see him, there they are. Perched on his nose. His crooked nose. 

He's so fucking familiar, he's gotta be a stalker.

It's cool, though. You can play ball. You can make this guy regret ever being born. That's pretty much your shtick.

The crawlspace in his apartment is exactly the same as the one in yours in reverse. Hardly any effort required to rework it, make it just how you like it. Stalker never seems to leave, so there's a fun extra challenge. He sits there playing video games you've got gathering dust in your place, laughing when he glitches through something. Fuck, he never breaks kayfabe. It's legitimately fucking respectable, even if it's eerie as all getout. Takes a lot to shake you. Damn, he's good.

You're better. You flash through his place, wiring up cameras when his back is turned, when he's taking a shit, when he's sleeping. Doesn't seem like he sleeps much. Relatable.

You set up an easy cycling video feed on your computer, ready to learn every single thing about him.

———

"Yo," says Stalker, standing outside your door with his hands shoved in his pockets like he belongs there. He knocked shave-and-a-haircut style and you couldn't resist opening up to that ludicrous level of bullshit.

"Sup," you respond. Damn, he's even got the slouch right. 

The crooked grin on his face is something you've only seen on camera. Stalker's got balls to flash it at you now. "Heard you jamming down the hall, man. Most people wear headphones or some shit when they mix, you know, so they don't bother the neighbors?"

And the cadence. Shit, man, this is insane. Your hackles would rise, but that'd imply you ever let your guard down. Nah. Bro Strider doesn't do that. You give him a long look, quiet and still like you might frighten him off. He doesn't seem scared at all. That's a difference. "You don't seem too awful bothered."

Stalker laughs in a quiet snorting huff. Got that right, too. "Nah, you right, I don't give a fuck. I like your style. You wanna riff together some time? I've got a rad set-up at my place. Sample some Call Me Maybe in with that Smash Mouth."

You raise your eyebrows, letting them slowly inch up your face.

You don't say no.

He takes that exactly how he should(n't). "Nice, man, fuckin' radical. I'll blow your goddamn mind." Stalker mimes blowing his brains out, complete with the head jerk and using one open hand to mimic where the viscera would fly out. Maybe you should do a video with that sort of thing. A gun, red stuffing flying out of a smuppet's head. Probably get some gunplay folks' attention. "Actually, you wanna come down now? I've got beer and shit. Budweiser, if that does it for ya."

Wow, that's exactly what you drink when you want to get pissed. Just the right amount of cheaply disgusting and ironic. 

You cannot possibly resist the urge to step foot inside Stalker's apartment of his own volition, so you incline your head just slightly. "Lead the way, man." Part of you wants to call him lil' bro, just to see how he reacts, and his eyebrows go up like he knows what your thinking. That easy grin, so unlike what you're used to, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

"Yeah? Cool." He does lead the way. Takes you right into his apartment and shows you everything you've already seen.

You pick out the location of every camera in the place while he talks about his "sweet bachelor pad" and goes on long, rambling tangents about everything and nothing in particular.

"What's your name, anyway?" you cut right through a ramble about the benefits of an all-Mountain Dew and Dorito diet. 

Stalker raises his eyebrows at you. It'd look incredulous if a smile that didn't look downright knowing wasn't coming to his face. Combined, they make him look like a douchebag. "Dave," he answers. "Wondered when you were gonna ask, figured I'd just wait and see if you wanted to be like two ships passing in the night or something."

You stare at him like he'll cave for a long minute, but he doesn't.

"Try again," you say. "You've got game, but not that much game."

He snort-laughs and shrugs widely, all spread arms and dramatic. "Course I've got game. That's my life's work, being the man with the plan on the court about to make the winning basket. You should see me in sportsball." He doesn't deny he's playing, get defensive or touchy or wild. The cojones he must be packing are massive, bronze, and respectable. You can and will cut his head off if he goes too far. Disposing the body might be a bitch, but...

"Name," you prompt him before he can go on a painfully Dave-esque tangent.

"Dave," he repeats, smile slightly wider. "Or David. D. Hell, maybe Davis—Dale? Nah, not Dale. Shit, maybe Dante." The laugh he barks when he says Dante says he just made the most hilarious joke, and you don't like not being in on it. "Dante's great." He has to pause and wheeze. Must be a helluva in-joke. "But really, it's Dave. Dave's a classic, isn't it?"

You absolutely refuse to call him that. Your eyes narrow and your shoulders tighten. "Stalker'll have to do then."

The aptly named Stalker just laughs. "That's rich, comin' from you, bro, but aight. Cool. Let's just get some beer and spin, unless you wanna throw a punch while you're all wired up like that." Well. He's right. You could probably name yourself Stalker too, and it'd be just as apt, but fuck him. 

You watch for a break in the act while you’re drinking his shitty beer, mixing sick beats on his turntables, listening to him ramble on, and it never comes. Dude definitely brought his A game to whatever the fuck kind of game he’s playing. He can’t put a dent in your chill, though, and it amuses the hell out of you to imagine how frustrating it must be for him. You may not know who he is or what he’s doing, but your command of your own reactions is rock solid, and you don’t give an inch.

It’s weird as hell, but hanging out with him, the both of you trying to feel each other out, dropping casually barbed comments and accusations so heavily veiled most people wouldn’t even be able to distinguish the shape of them—it’s deeply unsettling, but it’s also the most fun you’ve had in years.

You almost smile as you settle into bed that night, back in your empty apartment.

———

Dave has a bag slung over one shoulder and a hand-me-down suitcase that you didn’t give him.

The heat is oppressive, 110 degrees plus broken AC—you could fix it, but you don’t. Sweat drips down Dave’s forehead, plasters his hair to the back of his neck. He reeks. Been hustling around today, packing his bags while he hopes you’re not looking.

You wait till he gets to the door to ask the question.

“The fuck d’you think you’re going?”

He goes rigid, whips around on the spot. Fighter’s stance. Atta boy. He tries for short. Curt. It’s not a good sound for him, especially not when his voice cracks. “Out.” Last man alive in the Sahara with no water left dry. Teenage boy whose balls just dropped mid sentence cracked. You raise an eyebrow in warning and wait for him to keep going. He always keeps going.

Dave clears his throat, makes himself stand up straighter. He white-knuckles the strap of his bag. “I’m tenderin’ my resignation, Bro.” His voice rasps. He pauses like you might say something. You don’t. “I’m outtie. Punchin’ the clock, you know what I’m saying? Time for this bird to fly the coop. Spread my wings, feel the wind in my hair, find some unsuspectin’ bald fuck to shit on.”

He’s gonna split his own skin with how tight he’s wound. Incredulity starts across your face. “You wanna leave?”

At your expression, he shrinks, folds back down, scratches bitten fingernails against canvas fabric.

Then he takes a breath.

He grounds himself.

He straightens up.

“Yeah, Bro,” he says. “Yeah, I wanna leave.”

You hit him. You don’t let him explain himself, you don’t call a strife, you don’t give him a courtesy second to get a sword up. You just hit him. Full haymaker. Barroom brawl. Right on his crooked nose. No holding back.

He takes it like a sack of flour and hits the wall like one, too. Right away, his arms fly up to defend from further attack. Good. “You’re sixteen, kid,” you say. Snarl. You’re angry like you haven’t been in years. It lashes out of you and you almost hit him again. “You think you’re gonna survive out there on your own? Without me?” 

“Yes,” Dave hisses from behind his arms. His shades are askew and his eyes flash fear and blood. “Fuck yeah, I do, are you kidding me?” His voice is pitching up, shriller, angrier. “Bro, you’re a psycho! Every day it’s puppets and ass and ‘oh shit, am I gonna get fucked up?’”

You’ll show him fucked up. You take another swing. It’s not like he can’t use the hand-to-hand practice. You’re helping him. “I’m helpin’ you, you ungrateful little shit. You think someone’s gonna stick around to patch you up after they throw a punch? You think anyone would do that but me?”

Dave practically fucking bellows. His face is red, swelling, and sweaty, and his eyes look dangerously glassy. Fucking pathetic. “You’re not supposed to have thrown the punch in the first place!”

Stop. This isn’t what happened. Rewind.

“Yeah, Bro,” he says. “Yeah, I wanna leave.”

This is so ridiculous that the corner of your lip twitches up in disbelief and dark humor. “And what are you gonna do out there, kid? What are you, fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” Dave says with more force than you knew he could muster. It comes from frustration. It comes from fear. “You don’t even know how old I am, man? That’s all kinds of fucked up.”

You snort. “Excuse me, princess. Don’t get your panties in a bunch over a year. The point stands. You ain’t old enough to be on your own.” You ain’t old enough to be without me. 

“I’m old enough to do whatever I damn well please, and it sure as hell ain’t takin’ this shit anymore. This isn’t—this isn’t normal, Bro, this isn’t okay. This is fuckin’ sick and miserable and I hate it here. I hate the fuckin’ sound of this place, nevermind the goddamn sight.” You see his eyes flick over the living room, somehow.

“Watch it.” Anger snaps out of you. Dave flinches, but stays tall. You’re proud, a little, but mostly you’re annoyed, and that annoyance is quickly graduating. “You live here, twerp. I put a roof over your head and I take care of you. You don’t got a right to say anything different.”

He barks a laugh, and that startles you. It’s a short, sharp, humorless thing. It’s not a sound he should make. “You take care of me the way Cinderella’s stepmom takes care of her, Bro, you shouldn’t be winnin’ any awards.”

“What? I ain’t made you a scullery maid, lil bro, and you got all the shit you need to live, plus some you don’t. You think you need that computer? Your turntables? Your camera?”

“You beat me!” he bursts out, like you shoved your hand in and pulled it from his chest. 

The words ring through the room and stay there. They hover. They spread like spilled ink.

Your eyebrows raise. No, a little higher. 

You laugh. “I don’t fuckin’ beat you. S’just training. You don’t gotta be such a little bitch about it.”

“Oh my fuckin’ god,” Dave almost shrieks back. “No. No, no, no, this is the problem, Bro, you don’t know anything. You think it’s just okay for some reason, like any semblance of fuckin’ normality is water in oil and you just goddamn avoid it. Whoopsie, here’s the fuckin’ plague, and the plague is treatin’ me like another human being instead of a—another puppet or some shit.”

His limbs pull taut as if he really is held by strings. By wires. He bares his teeth at you. “It’s the worst thing a-fuckin’-bout it, that you don’t even think anything’s wrong. I’m tired of this shit. I’m tired of it and I’m leaving and you just try and stop me.”

Dave issues the challenge standing tall, blazing mad, and while you’re still processing the rage welling up inside you, he nods sharply and turns to leave. That’s that, he seems to say. The door’s opening, he’s leaving—

You grab him.

He jerks in your grip, breathes hard. “Let go,” he snaps at you. “‘m not dealing with this anymore, Bro, I swear to god.”

“You can’t leave.”

“Why the fuck not?”

You stop. Why the fuck not. Because… you love him? No. You’re not putting up with that level of gayness from your own gay as fuck mouth. You can feel it trying to bubble up out of your mouth. You quickly manage to. Not say that. “You’re my brother.” 

It’s still sentimental. It’s still not the right thing to say. Dave tries to rip his arm away. You hold tight. 

He starts to say something. You cut him off. “You’re not leaving.” 

Something in him breaks. He shoves at you, kicks at you, snaps at you, and when you don’t budge, he slumps into you like a marionette with its strings cut. He’s not leaving.

Stop. That’s still wrong.

You let him go.

You watch him open the door without taking his eyes off you while you sneer. You watch him drag his shit over the threshold. You watch him disappear as if into thin air, taking with him sixteen wasted years. Good riddance. 

But that’s not really what happened either, is it?

———

When you wake up, you almost think Stalker was a dream too. He’s still there, though, blank shades aimed at his TV screen when you check your feeds, and back at your door that afternoon, and—somehow—on your futon that evening, running his mouth about pop culture trends and the evolution of cinema as narrative art. He insinuates himself into your apartment and your life easy as breathing, and you don’t even have to make room for him. 

You miss Dave.

It doesn't make a goddamn lick of sense, when Stalker's right there filling in the gap in your life with Dave’s hair and shades and hobbies and mannerisms, mumble-rapping to himself while he plays Dave’s games. 

Somehow, though, all the similarities just make you think about the differences. He’s so much like your own Dave, except that you couldn't hurt this one if he tried, couldn't scare him, couldn’t make him jump and shriek with a well placed smuppet trap. Your lip quirks in a hint of a smile at the memory—that shit was hilarious—and then it dies on your face, cold. Dave didn’t think it was funny, and Dave is gone. Dave left.

Dave hates you.

Stalker’s still talking away on the futon next to you, carrying on a rambling one-sided conversation in just the same way Dave used to, when he was younger, before he got smart and self-conscious and scared.

(But he was always smart, even if he was a different kind of sharp than you were. And he was always scared, too, wasn’t he?)

———

You keep hanging out with him, and watching him through your cameras when you’re not hanging out with him. You put all of the resources at your disposal toward the task of figuring him out.

You can’t.

None of your searches have turned up a shred of information. You haven’t even found a single dead end—to get to a dead end you need to start out with some sort of path to follow, and there’s just… nothing. You haven’t turned up even a hint to suggest that this dude existed at all before he turned up down the hall from you.

It feels like he’s talking around something a lot of the time, oblique references skirting the edge of whatever he’s got on his mind that he doesn’t want to share, or at least won’t bring up directly. He’ll give you these sly smirking looks like he’s laughing at an inside joke you’re not privy to, and whatever it is, the joke’s on you.

You don’t like it.

You can’t help liking him, though, and you still can’t tell if it’s more in spite of or because of his maddening Dave-ness. It bothers you, not knowing what to make of him, and all your expert internet stalking has gotten you a whole lot of fuck all. 

And it’s not just the mystery of him that’s been frustrating you.

It’s also the dumb dick jokes and grab-ass that seem to be his version of flirting. You’re pretty sure it’s flirting, anyway, and you think he might be down for more. People don’t voluntarily spend much time around you unless they want something, in your experience, and it doesn’t seem like he’s in need of money or puppet ass. What else could he want? Like, yeah, he’s obviously here to fuck with you, looking and acting like he does, but you’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop for weeks and there’s been nothing, just the same unsettlingly familiar schtick he arrived with. 

He’s not gonna make a move, you decide, and the stalemate’s getting stale. If you’re gonna learn anything about who this fucker is, or where he came from, or what the hell he wants with you, you’re gonna have to get it from the source. So you cap off your next late night spinning session with something a little stronger than your usual shitty beer.

“Ooh, Mr. Strider,” he says when you put the handle of cheap whiskey on the table, “I know I’m a cheap date, but I’m really not that kind of girl.”

“You gonna tell me what kind of girl you are, then?”

“Nah.” He grins, big and cheesy.

“Shut up and take a fucking drink,” you tell him. 

Like you hoped, he gets even talkier when he’s halfway to wasted, and whatever filter he keeps his secrets inside with starts to slip. You don’t even have to prompt him much beyond the occasional interrogative grunt, and when he gets onto the subject of what a fucking creep you are he’s downright loquacious, if not entirely coherent.

It still catches you off guard when he jumps the conversational tracks right to thing you’ve been wondering about since day one.

"Man, you're a bad dude and we both know it. No one with this much puppet ass could be anything but a massive creeper, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I mean, why d’you think I'm here?" 

What. “Is that supposed to be fuckin’ rhetorical?” You don’t say you’ve been trying to figure that out since day one. You figure it’s implied.

"Well shit, you think I chose to just show up like this? Everyone gets their just desserts, man, and it ain't no apple cobbler." There’s a strange note not quite hiding beneath his flippant tone, something sad and wistful, and he shakes his head before throwing back the rest of his whiskey like it’s water.

He dozes off, still mumbling sleepily, and you stare at his far too familiar face and wonder what it means until you’re on the verge of passing out yourself. Then you shake him awake and send him back to his own apartment. You don’t sleep well around people. You don’t sleep well at all, anymore.

———

After another night of ugly dreams and another day of being unable to focus on anything but how Stalker’s perfect mimicry of Dave’s mannerisms is driving you batshit, you finally go for the direct approach.

“Who the fuck are you? I know how to find shit out, but going by the records, you don’t exist.”

“I like you, man, so I’ll give you a hint. You know how I keep saying you’re a bad dude? Work from there.”

"What, you're on some mafia vengeance kick?"

"Does hell count as the mafia? Not too big on la famiglia down there, I gotta say, but I guess we got enough of their guys, you could make an argument for some overlap."

“What.” You give him your flattest stare. Motherfucker did not just claim to be from hell, what the fuck.

He shrugs. “Call it a curse, karma, your personal demon here to inject a little more negative energy into a life that, wow, really doesn’t need the assist if I’m being honest, but here I am anyway, your very own walking talking bad vibe factory. I don’t make the rules, man, I go where they send me. The rules, that is. I don’t report to anyone, despite all the jokes about it hell ain’t an actual bureaucracy, I just end up where I’m meant to be.”

“Harassing me.”

“You got it.”

He’s so full of shit. You’re actually grudgingly impressed by the brazenness of it. 

"Thing is, you're not so bad, really."

You convey your incredulity and profound disagreement with a grunt and absolutely no change in your facial expression. That you are, in fact, so bad is the closest thing this asshole has to a consistent theme, as far as you can tell, and you’ve never disputed its accuracy. You are not a good person. You have never been a good person. His presence in your life is a direct consequence of how bad you actually are, even if you haven’t quite felt your way around to admitting you believe in the whole “literal demon from actual hell” thing.

"Well, aight, sure,” he says, acknowledging your objection as if you’d spoken it aloud. “You're incredibly, explicitly, irredeemably fucked up. You're gonna go to hell whether you try n repent or not, man, but look. You beat on a kid. Shit’s fucked up. At least you ain't some kiddy diddler, though, right? Coulda been worse. Just slammed him with your creepy puppets and kicked his ass with a sword. He’s got scars and trauma but he’s not fucking dead.”

“Low fucking bar you got there.”

“You have no idea the sort of people I know down under, man, it's the pits. You’re a breath of fresh fucking air by comparison. Downright wholesome. This is basically a sweet vacation for me, man, and I’m not in a hurry to get back to the grind."

"So don't."

"Yeah no, there's these things called hellhounds that'll drag me back by the wings, and I like to keep these things nice and slick, you know. Might be on a different plane of existence from you but that don't mean they don't matter. Be sensitive."

"I'm sensitive enough where it matters."

"Haha dick jokes. Good one. Anyway I figure I'll just fuck with you until you either die or ice yourself, and you don't seem the self-icing type. I don't think I could make you feel bad if I tried, not on purpose. You’re taking care of the torment part all by yourself."

You bite your tongue on your reflexive denial—you’re a stone-cold master of irony and you don’t regret shit—because you don’t like hearing him say it, but he’s not wrong. In the five years since Dave left, well, you wouldn’t have called it torment, wouldn’t have admitted it even in the privacy of your own head, but… yeah. The nightmares might be new, but the misery isn’t.

———

Another day, and you’re just about at the end of your rope. You’re angry and horny and you’re tired of looking at your demonic stalker neighbor and seeing your little brother. He’s talking again, the cadence all Dave, and you want to shut him up.

You kiss him. Hard. That seems to do the trick, at least for the moment, and you’re viscerally triumphant when he pauses before kissing back. Half a second’s worth of being caught off guard before he leans into you and bites into your mouth. He’s starting to look smug. You don’t want him smug. You don’t know how you want him (and that’s new, isn’t it?) but it sure as shit isn’t with a smirk starting to crawl across his face.

“Huh,” he says. “Gotta say I didn’t think you’d really go there, but I’m down to clown. Really, though? This does it for you?” He glances down at himself, looking almost perturbed. “Didn’t think you were the type.”

You hear what he’s not saying loud and clear, this time, and he’s wrong. It isn’t the resemblance to Dave that makes you want him. But telling him that would be acknowledging it, and you’re not doing that. Let him think whatever he wants about you.

“Welp,” he says, “Not like gettin’ nasty with me is gonna get you any more damned. Can’t desecrate what ain’t sacred.”

You steer him into your bedroom and kiss him again, get a hand in his hair and tip his head back, get your other hand on his ass and squeeze.

He spins you and shoves you up against the wall in one tight movement that should not be as goddamn easy as he makes it look and then he’s behind you, solid and strong, breath hot on the back of your neck, leaning into you and pinning you with his thin fingers tight on your wrists and his hips rocking just a little, rubbing his hardening cock against your ass. When you turn your head, craning your neck to get a glimpse of him, you can’t see anything but a flicker of shadow on the wall you’re pressed against, there and gone again so fast that all you get is an impression like an afterimage of a huge, long-feathered wing.

“Bro, it seems like you’re operating under some very false pretenses here,” he says, and his voice is light, playful, but there’s steel in it. “So let me tell you how this is gonna go: I’m gonna do whatever I want to do to you—” His fingers squeeze your wrists so hard you know they’re going to bruise. “—for as long as I want—” He rolls against you again, sounding more dangerous than he ever has. “And you’re going to take it.”

“Yeah?” you say. A grin threatens to spread across your face, but you keep a lid on it. “Do your worst.” It’s been a while since you got done right. You have a feeling this guy might deliver. 

“Oh, you definitely couldn’t handle my worst,” he says. He’s fully hard, now, grinding his dick against your ass. It feels big. You want it in you.

Seems like he wants it in you too, by the way he jerks your pants open and pushes them down, taking your underwear along for the ride. While you’re stepping out of them, you take advantage of having your hands free and pull your shirt off too, and as soon as it clears your head he’s pressing up against you again, warm and solid and so close you can feel the buttons of his suit jacket along your spine.

He bites into the thick muscle between your neck and shoulder, sudden and sharp, a hot sting of pain that makes you grunt. “What’re you, part hellhound now, too?” He sucks what’s sure to be a nasty bruise into your skin.

“Yeah,” he says as he detaches, and exhales a laugh into your hair. “The hell part.”

You don’t know when he swiped the lube from your bedside table but you recognize the slightly sticky pop of the cap flicking open, shortly followed by the unmistakable sound of a zipper. He makes a pleased little humming sound and then he kicks your legs apart and pushes in, no prep, just a steady slide into you, and yeah, he’s big. Fuck. 

You focus on breathing deep and slow while he fucks you open. He does it slow, at least, and the stretch of it burns—hurts—but it feels good too. Feels better when you get a hand on your own dick and give it a squeeze, but that doesn’t last long; he wrenches your other arm behind your back, forcing you to bend over until he’s got you leaning so far forward you have to brace yourself with a hand on the wall to keep from overbalancing. At least he’s not making you use your face.

(There’s something incredibly hot about the idea of him fucking you with your face smashed against the wall, and that makes the pain of it better. Maybe next time? Will you fuck him again?)

You’d just about adjusted to the way his dick was reshaping your insides, but the new angle has him going deeper, and every few thrusts he swivels his hips in a grinding movement that puts pressure on your prostate and makes the teeth of his zipper bite into your skin. Your shoulder aches from how he’s got your arm twisted behind you, and the place where he bit you throbs in time with your pounding heart, and your own breath is loud in your ears, harsh and panting.

It’s hard to think through the assault on your senses, takes effort to find the words you’re looking for, but you’ve always been a stubborn asshole.

“That— all— you— got?” 

“Nah,” he says. Motherfucker doesn’t even sound winded. “It’s just about all you can handle, though, isn’t it?” He picks up the pace, fucks you faster, harder, the pistoning of his hips steady as a metronome, and you can’t do anything but squeeze your eyes shut and take it.

“I know so many ways to break a person down til they’re begging,” he says, almost conversational, still barely breathless even though he’s really slamming into you now. “Most of em aren’t nearly this fun, though. Gotta say, it’s pretty funny how you’re still trying to be stoic. Kinda makes me wanna see how long you can keep it up.”

With the way he’s hammering your prostate now, you don’t think it’ll be very much longer. You try to dig your heels in—you should have more staying power than this. A little dicking down shouldn’t drive you this crazy, except it’s not really a little dicking, is it. Haha. Dick jokes.

It’s been a long time since you got fucked. You’re a big guy. Imposing. You radiate enough top energy to attract twinks from miles around, and you can back it up. This fucking grinding, though, this steady, uncaring fuck right into your guts. You might not go so far as to call it clinical, but he obviously doesn’t actually give a shit about how you feel beyond wanting to see you shatter. People usually look for your approval, not the places they can dig their claws in to make you fall apart.

The pleasure is building to a crescendo, trembling on the edge of too much, and then you’re over the edge and falling, coming so hard your vision goes white, and he’s still fucking you. 

You’re not sure when he let go of your arm, but both of them are braced on the wall in front of you now, and his hand is squeezing your throat instead. Not hard enough to choke you, but your vision is blurred and your pulse beating wildly under his hand and your breath is a ragged whine. His other hand strokes down your hip and wraps around your oversensitive dick and he’s still driving into you relentlessly and it’s too much, it’s all just too much.

You break.

“There it is,” he says, right in your ear, “yeah, fuck, yeah,” and he does another one of those deep grinding thrusts and stays buried in you for a long moment. The sound you make is almost pained, a long low moan on your breath.

It’s only when he smacks your ass and pulls away that you realize he came. He’s done. You stumble the three feet to the bed on shaky legs and just about fall onto it. Jesus wept, you feel wrecked. You shut your eyes. Open them again. Your face is warm and wet.

Oh, that’s why your vision is blurry.

You’re crying. There are actual tears, not just in your eyes but spilling down your goddamn face. You’ve had a lot of weird and kinky sex in your time and you’ve never been taken apart like this before. You’re tingling and sore and over-sensitized, and you have to gulp for breath for a long moment before you can speak. 

“Holy fuck.”

“I think you mean unholy, my dude,” David says. He’s sprawled on his back next to you, shades aimed at the stained ceiling, looking too damn put together for a guy who just had sex and too damn relaxed for a guy still wearing a full suit. You see a thin gray plume trickle from the corner of his mouth and you turn, ready to tell him off for lighting up in your bed, but he hasn’t got a cigarette, and the smoke he blows in your face smells faintly sulfurous, nothing like tobacco or weed or any other recreational substance you’ve encountered.

“Guess maybe I do,” you say. 

“Come here, you dumb damned asshole,” he says, thumping the mattress next to him, and of course he’s a fucking cuddler. Well, fine; you’ll rumple the hell out of his fucking suit, see how he likes it. 

———

Things settle into a different shape, after that. The nightmares keep coming, and you wish you could stop feeling so guilty, regretful, wrong, but—

“I can’t make you feel shit,” your friendly neighborhood demon tells you. “That’s genuine all natural homegrown remorse you’re experiencing, and I gotta say, I did not see that coming. There might be something redeemable in you after all, how bout that.”

You’re not convinced.

"Really, the whole thing's not totally lost," he says. He’s sprawled against your side, practically snuggled up against you because once that line was crossed your personal space was gone for good. "Seriously, you could hold out an olive branch. You know how to find people, you could dig up Dave's number, shoot him a text. Don’t go tracking him down, fuck no, but tell him you're sorry, hear him out. I mean, he'll probably tell you what a reprehensible prick you are, but it's a start."

"Why are you trying to help me with this?"

"If I tell you it's to watch you fuck up your relationship all over again for my amusement you'd believe it, right?"

Thing is, you really don’t. "Now that you've said it like that?" You raise your eyebrows.

"Lmao,” he says, enunciating it ridiculously. “You right fam." Even with the aviators covering his eyes, you can tell he’s staring at the wall over your shoulder, not looking at you. "It gets tiring. Sometimes a guy just wants to be a guy, you know, not a monster. I get that. Man, I get that better than anyone you'll ever meet. I think," he says, and his voice is lower, words coming slower, now, “I think if you clean up your act, you could be a better brother. Better person. Not heaven better, but you know. Limbo better, probably. You already like bending over. Just gotta slip right under that bar, baby."

You’ll have to think about that. You’re still not sure what you believe about hell and heaven and all that bullshit. The idea of trying to avoid damnation feels fucking ludicrous to you. The idea of being a better brother, though… if that were within the realm of possibility, maybe. Maybe it could be something you could work toward.

———

TT: hey, lil bro.

TT: dave.

TT: i wanted to say some things.


End file.
